


shots of dopamine

by inamamagic



Category: All For One (Web Series)
Genre: Anne Bonacieux (mentioned), F/M, Written when S2E6 was the last episode aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamamagic/pseuds/inamamagic
Summary: The five times Henry and Treville kiss.(takes place a little before s2 starts, and till just before e6 because that’s how much has been released right now)





	shots of dopamine

Treville rarely joins them whenever they hang out in Dorothy’s room, and Henry has to thank his stars for that because they’re always doing something completely ridiculous. Especially since they got their foam swords. She hasn’t walked in on them fencing with those just yet - that would be truly embarrassing, because she’s a fencing champion with the medals to prove it.

Yet, there she is, sitting gingerly on the floor next to Henry, cross-legged and clearly uncomfortable down there but trying not to show it. 

They’ve been through five rounds of Truth or Dare already. Dorothy’s already halfway to drunk (or perhaps she’s reached and none of them have noticed because drunk Dorothy is only a little louder than sober Dorothy). Henry and Alex are a little tipsy, and Portia and Connie are buzzed enough to be relaxed. Portia’s also on a sugar high, so there’s that.

Treville’s gotten through all five rounds picking only truth, mostly because no one had the guts to actually push her to pick dare, even though Alex tried to nudge her into it during round three. When it comes round to her again and she picks truth for the sixth time, Dorothy flings up a hand.

“I object!” she says, falling onto Connie with the force of her movement. “I object and impose a truth limit.”

“That’s completely arbitrary,” says Treville, but Alex interrupts.

“You should probably pick dare Jeanne,” she says. “We’ve all picked it at _least_ once.”

“Yeah!” says Portia. “Come on, we’ll give you something cute, like, I dunno, stuff two marshmallows in your cheeks?”

“We don’t have marshmallows,” says Treville, her shoulders stiff and her eyes darting around the room. It suddenly occurs to Henry that she might actually be _nervous._

“No worries,” says Connie. “We’ll give you something chill.”

Treville swallows, hard. “Alright, I suppose I should be a good sportsman,” she says. “I pick dare.”

“Great!” says Dorothy, clearly a whole universe away from everyone else, and Henry feels a sudden sense of dread. “I dare you to kiss Henry!”

Everyone falls silent, except Dorothy, who continues to giggle a little. Treville glances at Henry, who cracks a nervous grin.

“You can kiss me on the cheek if you want,” he says.

“No,” she says. “We’ll do it properly.”

Henry barely has a moment to prepare himself, but her lips don’t take him by surprise. They’re soft, gentle, tentative - but they absolutely take his breath away.

He shifts closer to her and closes his eyes, cupping her cheek and deepening the kiss. A tiny sigh escapes her, and Henry feels a gentle nip on his bottom lip that makes a shiver of sparks rocket up his spine.

Her hand slips over his thigh, leaving a tingling trail over it, and his fingers brush against the soft hairs at the back of her neck. She nudges her tongue against his lips and they part for her, tasting the lingering sugar from the square of chocolate she’d eaten just before she’d taken her turn. His heart races as her nails dig into his thigh.

She smells divine, like perfume too expensive to look at, and her hair is so soft that it borders on intangible. He tugs her a little closer to him, almost falling into her arms when he realises he’s kissing Treville. _Jeanne Treville_. Treville The Untouchable.

Holy shit.

He registers a loud whoop from Dorothy which makes them both jump. Treville lets go of him and clears her throat, smoothing down the front of her shirt. Henry takes longer to move - he just stares at her in a daze for a few seconds till Dorothy pokes him with her foam sword.

“Truth or dare Henry?”

“Dare,” he says. Treville scoffs.

“You’ve chosen dare five times,” she says. “Does the dare limit not exist?”

“I can impose a dare limit to fulfil your wishes m’lady,” says Dorothy. “Henry. Truth.”

“Fine. Truth.”

“Is Treville a good kisser?”

Connie laughs and Alex chuckles into her hand. Even Portia giggles at this. Henry looks at Treville, who’s eyeing him suspiciously.

“Of course it was,” he says. “She’s brilliant at everything. I was not disappointed.”

“Oh come on, you can do better than that!” exclaims Dorothy. “Tell us the gory deets!”

Henry’s cheeks burn, and he grabs his cup and gulps it down. “It’s one of the best kisses I’ve ever had,” he shrugs, trying to hide his nervousness under a forced cover of nonchalance.

“Nice!” says Dorothy. “Okay Portia. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Henry glances at Treville, who smiles at him, the reservation in her face all but gone. Her shoulders aren’t stiff anymore. If anything, she’s leaning a little towards him, even though her hands are clasped together in her lap.

Henry smiles back, happy that she’s relaxed.

***

He forgets about it after he wakes up the next morning. He slams snooze on his alarm, drags himself to the bathroom, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he brushes his teeth, but the kiss doesn’t come to mind at all until he bumps into her later that afternoon.

She stops abruptly and he slows down. Her eyes shine when they see him. “Hello Henry,” she says.

“Hi,” he says, rubbing the back of his hair because there’s a sudden prickliness growing over his scalp. “Uh. Had lunch?”

“Just finished,” she says. “You?”

“Ah…” Henry grimaces. “Haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Oh no,” says Treville, a crease forming between her eyes. “You should have something. Mealtimes are important and mustn’t be missed.”

“Yeah…” he says, squirming a little. Treville’s lips twitch.

“You seem nervous. Unusually so.”

“Yeah, I - er - well…” He chuckles and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Ah. The kiss.”

“Indeed,” says Treville. “We did kiss last night.”

A nervous tingling creeps up through his stomach and expands over his chest. He shoves his hands into his pockets and clenches his fists in it. 

“Are you in a hurry?” she asks.

“Uh - no, not really,” says Henry. “I’ve just finished classes.”

“Oh good,” says Treville. “I’m on my way back to the house. Would you like to come with me?”

He doesn’t really have a good reason to say no. And there’s no reason not to say yes either. As Treville begins to walk, he follows.

“How’s your day been?” he asks, expecting a polite and clipped reply. What he doesn’t expect is for her to sigh and roll her shoulders, as though trying to shake off a weight that none of them know about.

“I’ve had better ones,” she says. They walk under a couple of brick archways with vines creeping over them. There are little nooks here that people hide in to make out (but some people do a little more than that).

“What’s on your mind?” he asks. 

“It’s all a little tangled in there,” she says. “More so perhaps because… recent events have led me to feel a little - angry, to put it mildly. And confused. Angry and confused.”

“Right,” says Henry, who has no idea where she’s going with this. A cool breeze blows over them, cool enough to bite the back of his neck and make the hairs on it stand up. 

Treville sighs. “What do you do when you feel your rage pushing you towards something that’s perhaps morally incorrect?”

Henry gives her a wry smile. “You’re really not asking the right person.”

“Would you rather I asked Portia then?” Treville says, turning her head to look at him, and for a moment, he swears he sees amusement dance in her eyes.

“Portia would be the right point of contact for that, yes,” he says. Treville’s lips flicker into a smile, and Henry finds himself grinning too.

“I want your opinion though,” she says. “What do you do?”

“Well it used to be a no brainer for me,” he says. “I’d do it without thinking. Say what was on my mind. Hurt someone without considering the consequences.” He thinks about the things he’d said to Portia when they’d fought just before their breakup and winces. There’s a dull pang in his stomach, the scar of a self inflicted wound that’s still healing.

“And now?” 

Henry slows his pace, and Treville slows down too. They’re in front of a set of double doors that lead to a deserted corridor in one of Dumas’ older buildings. The administration’s been relocating classes for maintenance, but the odd student still mills around.

The air is colder and dustier here, and it smells mildly of mildew and bad decisions.

“I try to think before I do something,” he says. “But sometimes, my anger gets the better of me. It’s a work in progress still.”

Treville bites her lip and Henry’s eyes flick down to them. He tries to take his mind off the kiss the previous night. It was just a dare after all. Nothing to it. Even if it was one of the best kisses he’s had.

“I fear that my anger will get the better of me soon,” she says, placing a hand on the door handle and pushing in. Henry follows her into the dimly lit corridor. “I don’t know if I should just give in for once. I never do.”

“Well, there’s a lot of good that can come from not reacting,” he says. “Take it from me. Staying quiet is better.”

“Staying quiet makes me grind my teeth,” she says. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll need veneers.”

“Well okay, let’s see if we can take your mind off this then,” says Henry. “What do you need?”

“Dopamine.”

“Kissing releases dopamine,” says Henry without thinking. Treville’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and her lips part in surprised. A harsh burn rushes down his face to the tips of his toes and he starts to stammer. “I - uh - so I’ve heard, I mean, it’s nice - kissing is nice. But you know. It’s just kissing…”

She steps closer to him, choking his voice in mid sentence. “Kissing is nice,” she says, but her eyes aren’t on his. They’re looking somewhere south of them, and if he has to hazard a guess, he can probably safely say she’s not staring at his chin.

“Kissing is nice,” she says, eyes flicking back up for a moment before glancing down again. “Kissing you was nice. Surprisingly so.”

“Yeah,” says Henry, taking a deep breath to try to calm the frantic thumping of his heart, but he just gets a waft of her perfume instead. It’s something floral. Oh boy.

He’s not completely oblivious to the situation. He’s heard the rumours about Treville and Anne, as has everyone else. Last night doesn’t count, it was Truth or Dare and she kissed him first. But now, with her eyes darting towards his lips and back up to his eyes again, looking for all the world more like a nervous schoolgirl than the well-composed woman he knows, he decides to take a shot.

He tilts his head up a little to catch her lips, brushing them over so gently that he feels like he might explode with need for her. Her tongue nudges his bottom lip tentatively, but she doesn’t do much more than that.

He pulls away first. Even though he doesn’t know anything for certain, he knows there’s a line he’s leapt over, a line he’s leapt over on purpose so she wouldn’t have to cross it herself.

He doesn’t expect her to cross it, but she does. This time, her palm rests on his bicep, and he gathers up the courage to put a hand on her hip. In the coolness of the corridor, the kiss is warm, chaste, and oddly safe even when Henry feels like they’ve just been tossed into a whirlpool of uncertainty.

“Did that work?” he breathes.

“In some ways,” she says, kissing the corner of his mouth and leaving a glossy mark there. “In other ways… perhaps not so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She steps back and pats his arm. “You’re the first risk I’ve ever taken. I’m glad it was you.”

With that, she walks away, heels echoing through the silence.

***

Treville and Anne break up, shocking absolutely everyone but Henry.

He’s actually one of the first people to receive the news, about five hours after Dorothy’s impromptu party, because Treville texts him asking him to come meet her in private. First thing the next morning, he goes and knocks on her bedroom door.

“Enter,” he hears her say. He slips into the room to find her scowling at her laptop screen.

“You’re good with computers,” she snaps. She sounds like she has a cold. Henry closes the door.

“I have been known to be.”

“Why does Twitter have a character limit?”

He blinks. That was the last question he would’ve expected from anyone. “Um.” 

She swivels in her chair, and his heart sinks. Her eyes are red rimmed and swollen, and her nose is pink. “Why does it have a character limit?” she repeats.

“Well, they envisioned it for short pieces of information,” he says, walking close to her and stopping by her desk. “But of course, if you want to write more, you can always number your tweets and keep going. They were talking about increasing the character limit, but I’m not sure where that’s going exactly…”

His voice trails off when Treville whips around again and starts hammering furiously on her keyboard. He chances a glance at her screen. 

“You have Twitter now?” 

“Yes,” she says, eyes still on her screen. “I just created one.”

“What’s your handle?” he asks, taking his phone out and pulling up the app.

“My handle?”

If she hadn’t looked so devastated, Henry would’ve laughed. It’s cute.

“Your Twitter username is called a handle,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. “It’s at Miss Treville.”

“Nice one,” he says, searching her up. “Any reason why you decided to create a Twitter… oh…” He skims over the first tweet, eyes widening at the hashtag.

> _"All for one and one for all" is Mu Sigma Theta's motto, but it has_ [ _#failed_ ](https://twitter.com/hashtag/failed?src=hash) _to ring true under_
> 
> _the_ [ _#BonacieuxBehemoth_ ](https://twitter.com/hashtag/BonacieuxBehemoth?src=hash)

“Uh…” 

“I suppose some context is in order,” she says, sniffing and standing up. “Anne and I were… as you might have noticed last night… involved with one another in a personal capacity.”

“Yeah,” says Henry. “I - uh - I noticed.”

They’d all noticed. The way Anne had spun Treville around and dipped her and kissed her so charmingly that Henry had actually felt the guilt threaten to choke him, because how could he have even thought about stepping on something as sweet as that? How could he have kissed her, knowing the rumours, knowing that they could’ve been true?

“Well that’s over now,” she says, her brown eyes filled with so much sadness that it’s almost hard to look at. “I’ve ended things between us.”

“Oh,” says Henry again. “I’m sorry… Jeanne.”

Treville swallows and nods. “Thank you Henry. That is very kind of you.” Her voice sounds choked and raspy, and she wipes away a tear before it falls, dropping her gaze to the ground.

“Do you need anything?” he asks. “Ice cream, cheesy movies, uh, I dunno, I could offer myself as a human pin cushion if you want to stick a sword in me to let out some frustration.”

A strangled sort of sound explodes from her throat, and Henry wouldn’t have guessed it was a laugh if it hadn’t been for the sudden upward quirk of her lips. “It’s called a foil,” she says. Henry smiles.

“A foil,” he says, running a hand over the short hairs on the back of his head. “Right. I knew that…”

Treville laughs again, the same strangled laugh that sounds like her amusement is hitting a wall that won’t let anything positive escape her heartbreak.

“I could use a shot of dopamine right about now,” she says. “They should really get on inventing that. I’d buy a caseload.”

Henry just chuckles, not really knowing what to say. Treville steps closer to him. Without shoes on, she’s exactly his height. It’s interesting to be able to look her right in the eye.

“Kiss me,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t think kisses work the same when you’re sad.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” she says, hooking a finger around his pinky. Henry sighs and steps closer.

“Come here,” he says, drawing her in by the waist. Her lips smash against his and she whimpers, but he holds her steady, soft where she’s hard, gentle where she’s rough. Their first two kisses had been chaste on the edge of unrestrained, but this is a dichotomy of needs; hers unbounded and bordering on wild as she pours her rage into him, but his?

He’s just there for her, for no other reason than because he can. He can hold himself back, even though he wants her perhaps as much as she wants him right now, but he doesn’t know if she wants him, or if she just likes the thrill of it. 

_You’re the first risk I’ve ever taken_.

They’ve all always seen him as the wild and reckless one. The person that didn’t think before they spoke. The one that made their fury into fuel and ran with it. The one who loved hard enough to hurt and burned when they crashed. 

He doesn’t want to be just her risk. Her singular experiment. _Her rebound_.

He steps away. “I… Jeanne.”

She studies him with eyes that feel more like X-rays than anything, peeling away every layer he’s built over himself till she’s finally at his vulnerable centre.

“I’m not using you Henry,” she says, and her voice is steady for once. It’s not rasping anymore. It’s clear and strong, sounding a lot more like her usual self than she did a minute ago.

“You just broke up with Anne,” he says. “You might need a minute.”

“If that’s what you need,” she says, “I’m fine with that.”

She lets go of him but he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Talk to me,” he says. “Talk me through what happened.”

She tells him. Not all of it. But enough.

***

It’s not particularly hard for him to keep up appearances and pretend like he might not have played just the _tiniest_ part in furthering the process of their breakup. When Portia and Dorothy talk it over with the Inseparables later that afternoon, he tries to steer the conversation away to keep their focus on the campaign but they keep fixating on it. It really doesn’t help that Treville keeps rage-tweeting, or that Anne walks in mid-way through their discussion.

What helps even _less_ is his and Portia’s stupid fight afterwards. He locks himself indoors for almost an entire day because no matter what he does, he can’t seem to cool down.

After what seems to be the tenth time pacing around the room, he kicks the wall in frustration, resulting in nothing more than a stubbed toe and even more irritation. Swearing, he drops into his desk chair just as his phone dings. 

He groans. Portia and Dorothy have been texting him since he stormed out, but they’re the last people he wants to hear from right now. He doesn’t want any of Dorothy’s desperation and her need to make everything perfect just so she can play happy families with Anne, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to go back to Portia and accept half her forgiveness and pretend everything’s fine.

If she’s not gonna forgive him, then they’re better off apart anyway.

His phone dings a second time and he huffs and grabs it. Right on top of the flood of texts is one that he doesn’t mind opening.

**_Jeanne: Are you alright?_ **

Henry blinks, momentarily losing track of the way his anger has been hovering like a cloud around his face, making him drown in the thickness of it. He unlocks his phone and types in a reply.

**_Henry: I’ve been better._ **

**_Henry: What’ve you heard?_ **

**_Jeanne: You had a fight with Portia and quit her campaign._ **

**_Henry: Lol._ **

**_Jeanne: Let me know if you need anything._ **

**_Henry: A shot of dopamine._ **

She doesn’t reply. He didn’t expect her to anyway. It’s not like he was being serious. His sarcasm’s back at full force now that he’s riding the wave of his fury. 

He slams his phone down on the table and rubs his eyes, watching the sparks dance in the darkness. He runs his fingers through his hair - he’s done this so many times already that his hair’s all standing up. Usually he’d care about this, but today, he’s not going to experience human contact, so it doesn’t matter.

The knock on the door that comes ten minutes later proves him wrong.

“Who is it?” he yells.

“It’s me.”

Henry can’t identify who ‘me’ is just by their voice, but he has a feeling it might just be the only person he has any interest in seeing. Bounding out of the chair, he leaps to the door and yanks it open.

The moment her eyes lock onto his, he pulls her inside. His lips are on hers before the door shuts all the way. He locks it.

They stumble towards the wall and he pushes her up against it, tongue dancing over hers as he fingers the soft fabric of her jacket. She sighs against his lips, tugging his t-shirt, fingers dancing over the sliver of skin on his lower back, making him shudder.

She pushes him away from the wall but keeps kissing him, and they step blindly back, tripping over each others feet as they do. They slip her jacket off together; he tosses it onto the bed. Her fingers grow braver as they explore a wider expanse of his lower back. They bump into his desk; she pushes him against it and he leans back, letting her cup his face and pull him close as she stands between his legs. 

His anger dissipates, only to be replaced by the smell of her perfume and the feel of her blouse on his hands.

“I don’t know how this works,” he breathes, “but it does.”

“Right?” she whispers, and a soft laugh touches her lips. “I don’t know either.”

“Maybe it’s all chemical,” he says. “Like you’re my personal brand of heroin.”

Treville pulls back so abruptly that he gets whiplash. He blinks. She raises an eyebrow.

“Did you just quote _Twilight_ at me Henry Abascale?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Don’t tell anyone. It used to be my guilty pleasure.”

Treville laughs properly at this, a real belly rumbling laugh that makes her whole face light up as though none of the stress of the past week has ever touched her. Henry runs a finger down her cheek and kisses her again. Her fingers fumble over the buttons of her blouse, and he unbuttons his jeans and tugs the zip down before pulling her away from the desk and to the bed. They fall onto it tangled up in one another, clothes flying off until it’s mostly skin on skin.

His fingers glide up her skin, resting on the silky fabric of her bra until there’s a sudden pounding on his door. Treville gasps, grabbing the sheets as though someone will barge in, but Henry pulls her close.

“Door’s locked,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Henry! Henry I need to talk to you.”

It’s Portia. Henry groans.

“I need space!” he calls, holding Treville even closer as he does. Space he needs, yes, but not from the person currently wrapped up in his arms.

“We’ve given you space!” exclaims Portia, her voice high and hysterical.

Treville nudges him. “You should talk to her,” she whispers, but he shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to.”

“We need to talk now!” Portia is insistent, and this makes him panic.

“Well - I - I need more time!”

“But we’ve given you enough time!” she wails. “And the announcement is tomorrow so we don’t have anymore time!”

“I don’t care!” he yells. There’s a second of silence. Treville clutches his bare shoulder. Henry holds his breath.

“Fine!” comes the agitated response.

“Fine!” Henry calls back.

“No - _not_ fine!” 

Jesus Christ, even Dorothy’s here.

“Please, Henry just come outside and talk to us.” Dorothy sounds just as panicked as Portia does, but in that moment, Henry hasn’t felt more sure about anything, and he knows it has nothing to do with the fact that Treville’s there with him. That wouldn’t have changed how he feels about the situation.

“No,” he says.

There’s no response. They wait for almost five minutes before letting out twin sighs of relief. Henry flops back onto the bed and Treville strokes his hair, kissing his forehead.

“Do you need me to leave?” she asks.

“No,” he says, turning over and kissing her. “Stay.”

***

They wake up the way they went to sleep - tangled up in each other.

Henry buries his nose in Treville’s hair; her scent is warm and fills him with a contentment so unlike the rage of the day before that he smiles. Eyes still closed, he snuggles up to her before realising he’d agreed to be her VP candidate the night before.

Something inappropriate comes to mind and he snorts.

Treville growls, and he swallows the laugh. “What’s so funny?” she grumbles.

“Well,” he whispers, eyes half closed as his lips find hers. “You’re fucking your VP candidate. Kinky politics don’t you think?

He nips at her bottom lip and a satisfied chuckle escapes her mouth. “All politics is personal,” she murmurs.

“Ain’t that the truth,” says Henry with a huge yawn. He stretches out and a squeal escapes his throat. His cheeks burn. Treville snorts.

“Was it you that made that noise or a bird outside the window?”

“It could be a bird,” he says. “Let’s pretend it was a bird.”

She opens her eyes. There’s nothing there but fondness. “Alright,” she murmurs. “A bird it is.”

They snuggle close and sigh contentedly. Henry especially - he has no classes in the morning and no responsibilities till the afternoon, a rare luxury.

Treville wraps her arms around him and throws a leg over his own. 

“What am I, your bolster?” he mumbles. 

“Mmm,” she says. “You’re comfortable.”

“Well at least I’m good for something,” he says, settling down into the pillow, but he almost falls out of bed with the force of her movement as she hauls herself up, eyes wide open, a stern expression on her face.

“You are good for plenty of things,” she says. “You’re good at technology and computers and you know everything about all the confusing new apps that keep coming out. You’re good at supporting people, you’re a loyal friend, you’re tough as nails and you push through to do the right thing even if you’ve done the wrong one.”

“I was actually just being sarcastic,” he mumbles, but Treville’s already in mid-speech, and he swallows his words.

“You might not do the right thing all the time but anyone can count on you to pull through in the end,” she says, almost as though she’s inflating with pride. Her eyes gleam as she looks at him, and he feels a rush of something yet unidentifiable go through him.

“Thanks,” he says. 

“And,” she says, apparently not done at all. “You’re a damn good kisser, and god help the poor soul who has to kiss you next.”

Henry’s cheeks flame, but he props himself up on his elbows and smirks at her anyway.

“A damn good kisser, huh?” he murmurs. “High praise from someone who’s given me some of the best kisses I’ve had in my life. And believe me, I’ve had plenty.”

Treville smiles her gorgeous smile, and Henry reaches up to pull her in. The kiss is gentle and tiny, but it’s no longer hovering on the precipice of what if, but rather, holding onto the hope of more to come.

Henry doesn’t quite know how his feelings for Portia factor into all this - yes they were friends before all this went down, but that kind of heartbreak is also heartbreak, and he knows that dealing with that will be just as hard as the breakup, or maybe even harder. And with Treville… he can’t even begin to imagine the depth of what she must be going through. He remembers when he was there; it seems like yesterday, but at the same time, forever ago. It’s the kind of pain that lingers and leeches onto things if you don’t deal with it right.

Treville’s smile fades, and Henry realises he’s stopped kissing her. “You’re worried,” she says. It’s not a question. He marvels at the way she seems to know exactly what he’s feeling.

“Isn’t it too soon after you and Anne?” he asks. “I’d need a breather if I were you.”

“We don’t have to rush,” she says. “We don’t have to go anywhere. We can just stay here. Do this. Or go back to dopamine shots without anything on the side.”

“Dopamine shots huh?” he says, lips twitching. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

“It’s what you called them,” she says, stroking his cheek. Henry takes her hand and squeezes it. “And… about breathing?” she says, eyes growing hopeful. “You’re my breather. You’re my breath of fresh air. You’re the good thing after the worst storm I’ve been through in a while, but if you want us to go slow, we can go as slow as you want.”

“I just don’t want you to start hurting midway through and realise you can’t do this,” he says. “Because then it’ll just hurt the both of us. And as much as I like you - as much as I love our shots of dopamine…” They both smile at this. Henry continues. “I don’t want to get hurt. Not like this I mean. I don’t want to jump into a pit of spikes when I know there’s spikes in there.”

“I understand.”

“But I don’t want to stop this either,” says Henry. He tugs her down till she’s lying down next to him on the bed again. “I don’t. So maybe… maybe let’s go slow.”

“What if it doesn’t work and we can’t work together as President and VP?” she asks. 

“Oh trust me,” says Henry. “I’ve had plenty of experience with working with an ex. As long as we’re on the same page professionally, I’ll be fine.”

“Well then,” says Treville, kissing him again. “Let’s figure out if we’re compatible.”

Henry glides a hand up her back, smiling when she shivers. “Professionally?”

“Mmm, yes,” she whispers, sighing when Henry’s lips brush against her throat. “Professionally.”


End file.
